for rain had ever been his tears
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: His life had followed with ordered familiarity from the time of his birth. He was a prince; he would, someday, be a king. / THOR 2 SPOILERS


His life had followed with ordered familiarity from the time of his birth. He was a prince; he would, someday, be a king. Thor could not pretend he had ever entertained any notion that Loki might be the one to ascend the throne; and neither, it seemed, had anyone else in Asgard. He did not let that trouble him. After all, his mischievous, strange little brother had never seemed particularly bothered by the fact. As with everything else, it had never occurred to Thor that it could be any different, that someone could, in fact, be discontented with the status quo. Yes, it was the fault of his nature, but also of his upbringing; surrounded by expectations his entire life he had ceded his thoughts to them; what was the end in wishing and hoping for something different, something that would never come to pass? He was content.

Content, and all too blind; assured of his place and everyone else's in the universe. He was a boy; and in truth, unready for the throne. Thinking now back on that time, he wonders why Father ever thought he was ready.

From the time of his birth, up until his coronation day; when, just as the words were about to be spoken, his father's gaze grew distant, and instead of gaining a throne, he lost at once his place, his certainty, and his brother.

He has never gotten back that certainty, the self-assuredness of ignorant youth. It had shattered in a moment, just one of those things that would never return.

He had once thought nothing could be worse than losing his brother that first time; the horror and anguish of seeing him slip away and fall into the abyss, unable to save him, unable to do but scream. Time had seen fit to give him the mock of that certainty as well. Had managed to twist what should have been a time of rejoicing—the finding of his brother alive and well—into yet more anguish. For even as he stood before him, his brother was no more.

He was taken to Asgard in chains.

Thor could not face his sentencing—even had Odin not ordered him away he could not have seen the smug face that was a twisted mask over the thing that was no longer his brother. That thing which wanted nothing more than to destroy him and everything he held dear. And yet waiting for news of Odin's decision, he drank himself into oblivion. (He could not think that Loki might die once more—however justified—could only say to himself that he was dead, dead twice over, and would never return. And he was angry, so angry at that traitorous being that was not his brother; so angry, and could not forgive him for what he had done.)

And Loki was not killed. It was a relief, however it hurt to admit it, however it nagged him he should have felt differently. But the breaking of the bifrost had been the start of more than that, for the fighting had begun to rage from the moment their force was no longer an eternal threat. And so, while he had mourned, his father and his counsellors had met and talked late into the night; and with the tesseract now in hand and the bifrost restored, every warrior that could be spared was sent out to bring the nine realms under Asgard's rule once again.

It was long, weary work. Quick battles were all too rare; no, it was all the time skirmishes and guerilla warfare, treaties being reforged and treaties being broken and dark alliances between enemies. Politics. He had never had a head for them—had even less thought for them now—suffered through endless talking till he could get to the swift uncomplicated business of bashing heads and bodies with Mjolnir.

A year passed. Short time, and yet tiring; wearying. Never before had he fought without his friends at his side; even now, with all the four about him, he would check himself, waiting for a back that was not there, feeling for his brother's aid that would never come. Even in his absence he broke them.

He hated Loki. Hated him, but could not wish him dead. Could not bear to look upon him, and thought with grim satisfaction that he would wile away the remainder of his long life in prison. It was a crueler punishment than the axe, for one such as he.

And then, just as the convergence locked into place, just as peace once more descended unto all the realms, another, greater threat re-emerged from the shadows of bedtime-tales. Lies, of course—all lies. Asgard was built on them. He should not have been surprised. Could not say he was.

But the pain when he entered the room just one moment too late was greater than anything, even watching his brother die. And yet it recalled that pain. He could not reach them, they escaped before his eyes. And his father—grown distant and quarrelsome over the past years—held her in his arms, grief plain to see. In that moment Thor knew something had been broken more than even the body on the ground. Across the hall, Jane—fair Jane, watched in incomprehension and horror. He had wanted to shield her from his world, wanted to save her from harm. And yet now she too was dying.

Seeing Loki again, he had wondered if it would all come back, every painful feeling he had tried to hide away—was glad, at last, that the numbness did not end, that he could speak with gravity on killing him, could even believe he meant it.

But it was all for naught. Not hours after Loki had returned, they fell into their old steps; and he wished—oh, how dearly he wished that he could trust him. There was no one else.

But the Norns were not done with his sorrow. Not a day after they had entered the battle, a team once more; not one day after he had dared to hope he and Loki might have come to something more than hate; there he lay on the ground before him, bleeding and grey. It was not possible, it was not fair. He could not lose him twice, not after he had only just found him again.

_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_.

He could not rule. The thought of ruling was laughable when he could not even rule himself; he could not bear to stay in Asgard where every crack made in the battle reminded him of what he had lost. There were those that rebuilt and started their lives anew; he could not. Not again. Not here.

His father let him go.

There was no funeral for Loki, though he died with honour; Thor pushed out the boat himself, on a night with no moon. No sparks flew from the boat as it tumbled over the edge; Loki's spirit may have come to rest somewhere, but it had not been in the sky; not in Valhalla. Perhaps he lay wherever Jotuns did when they died. He hoped so. Could not bear to think that even the skies had rejected him.

And Jane was waiting. He came down with the sound of thunder, and she rushed out, joy free and uncomplicated, reaching up to kiss him. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach his face. He had left it all behind. This was enough. He held her, and told himself all was well.

And if he ever cried, no one would know; for rain had ever been his tears.

.

.

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End file.
